the weight of that desire, hot and hard. I breathed a moan into his mouth, triggering a flex of his hands—one on my jaw, one on my waist—hips shifting at the sound.
The hand on my ass moved to my thigh, gathered my skirt in crawling fingers, hitching it high. His fingertips licked at my skin as he tugged until the fabric was around my waist. Free at last, my thighs parted, making way for his hips to press that solid steel against the seam of my body.
A shock, hot and sharp, shot down my thighs, up my torso, eliciting a gasp that broke the kiss.
When my drunken eyelids parted, they revealed the sight of Kash looking down at me in the moonlight.
His big hand cupped my jaw, thumb stroking my bottom lip in a gesture of ownership, drawing a fluttering flex at my center.
Hot was my desire, pent up and tugging at its chains. And Kash held the key in the palm of his broad hand.
Down my neck that hand moved, down the V of my shirt to unfasten the button between my breasts with a flick of his fingers.
His voice was thick, rough. “When was the last time he made you come?” Flick, and another button undone, along with my composure.
I rolled my hips into his. “A month,” I whispered. “Maybe two.”
“Unacceptable,” he breathed, angling for my lips, his broad hand sliding into my gaping shirt to cup my breast, his calluses snagging on the silk, but I didn’t care. He could shred it to bits if he wanted to.
He could do anything he wanted to.
And as if he heard the thought, he did. A frustrated groan preceded him hooking me around the waist. An answering yelp of surprise as my legs wound around his waist. A giggle against his lips before I kissed him, arms circling his neck to hang on, though my grip was useless. He palmed my ass with one hand, which was strong enough to hold me up while he snatched the flannel blanket off the stool with the other. Gravity shifted as he turned, bouncing as he walked me somewhere unknown, and I didn’t care where. I was too busy tasting him, too occupied with his lips, too absorbed with cataloging the way he felt against me.
He stopped, tipping me gently, loosening his grip to encourage me to let go of him, but I didn’t. I flexed my arms and legs, keeping me resolutely locked around him. Kash laughed into my mouth and popped my bare ass, the snap and sting earning him what he’d asked, though he didn’t let me go until my feet were on the ground.
“Stay,” he commanded like I was a puppy.
But didn’t tell me to be still. I watched him spread the blanket between rows of blush chrysanthemums, undoing my blouse and shucking it. I dropped it without care onto the dirty concrete and shimmied out of my skirt, impatient and aching.
He was right—it was unacceptable that I’d been unattended for months. That the man I had been with couldn’t be bothered with my pleasure, only his own. That I had to take what I needed, frustrated and ignored.
Kash turned and stilled, his eyes dragging down the length of my body, then back up. Hungry appreciation zinged between us. His empowered me. Mine was heavy with the desire to get his clothes off, including that T-shirt, which I only just noticed said, Gardening Makes Me Thorny, framed by classic American tattoo roses and thorns.
I drew my bottom lip into my mouth. When it came to Kash, gardening made me thorny too.
“Take that off,” I ordered, nodding to his shirt.
His lips flicked into a smile, his eyes locked on mine as he reached over his shoulder to grab a handful of shirt. He pulled it off in what felt like slow motion, first exposing the deep ridges and flats of his abs, the canals of his hips. The breadth of his chest, the discs of his pecs. Down one arm and over his head, his eyes instantly connecting with mine again. And then, the shirt was gone.
“What else do you want, Lila?” he asked, a challenge behind a sideways smile.
Panting. I was panting, too hot, too eager to contain so much heat. “Fuck me up,” I said without thought or care beyond that moment.
“Oh, I plan to,” he promised, devouring the space between us to scoop me into his arms and kiss me in the same motion.